Firewhiskey and Other Tipples
by SilverMooonshine
Summary: "Part of me knows I should feel guilty; she's only doing what she can to help in the hunt for the remaining Death Eaters, and we're so close to catching the last ones now. But it's just so damn exhausting to have to deal with her, and we're only a day into a mission that's likely to take at least a week." Rated M for one incidence of swearing and suggestive themes.


**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is still not mine.**

 **Written for the QLFC Round 7: Potions Class  
Position: **Chaser 2, Harpies  
 **Prompts:  
** Position - Calming Draught  
8\. (word) revenge  
11\. (word) special  
13\. (creature) spider  
 **Word Count:** 2,989

 **This is my first Dramione, so be gentle with me! The concept is one I've seen a few times, but bear with it, it probably won't end how you expect. To clarify, whenever it says _One Week Earlier_ or something similar, it's from the first section not from the section before. Hopefully it will make sense as you go through. Thanks to Nasim (natida) for being a fabulous beta once again, enjoy!**

* * *

I lie next to her, the blue glass creating an ocean around the bed in which we rest. Her eyes are closed, her breathing light and fast, and I give her a kiss on the forehead as I throw the last bottle down onto the floor. The sound of shattering echoes around the walls of yet another dingy room, no more like home than the last. Staring down at the floor, I watch the clear liquid running rivers across the wood–the remnants of her hope that had caused her downfall.

I climb out of the bed, glass cutting into my soles, not allowing myself a last glance back as I head through the door, the red of my blood mixing with the clear.

 _Two Weeks Earlier_

"Sit down and have a drink, Granger."

She sits down gingerly on the greasy bar stool, her brown eyes not quite meeting my grey ones. I know it's hardly a place she's going to find _comfortable_ , but she could at least make an effort. And if she has to take it out on anyone, it's Potter's fault. It's definitely his fault that we have a double room for later to keep up the pretence.

She fixes her cool gaze on me, one hand clutching her bag. "I've got my own, thanks, Malfoy."

"You know," I say with a glance around the dimly lit bar to ensure no one is listening. "People may start to get suspicious if we use last names all the time. It's not usually how a married couple refers to each other."

"Well," Granger hisses, her voice filled with venom. "Excuse me if I have a hard time imagining I'm married to _you_."

"Well, maybe you should bring that up with Potter, don't you think? I didn't ask to be here any more than you did, and you could've said no. You're not his _slave_ –you have a higher position than him for Merlin's sake. Next time, save us both the anguish and just say no. Then I might have to put up with someone a bit less uptight, and get a good fuck out of it too."

She looks taken aback by my words, and a part of me knows I should feel guilty; she's only doing what she can to help in the hunt for the remaining Death Eaters, and we're so close to catching the last ones now. But it's just so damn exhausting to have to deal with her, and we're only a day into a mission that's likely to take at least a week. She's barely said a word to me all day, and her mood just seems to worsen as the seconds of silence tick by.

The bartender comes over; I order two Firewhiskeys–anything to get me through this night–and slide the sickles across the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Granger taking what she thinks is a discreet swig out of a flask from her bag. The man behind the bar, with our drinks in hand, moves to say something to her. Panic flashes through her eyes.

I retrieve a galleon from my pocket, the glint of gold instantly catching the barman's eye. I push it across the counter towards him, and he quickly snatches it. "Sorry about my wife, dear man. She takes pain potion for an old Quidditch injury; I hope you don't take offense."

Shaking his head and patting his pocket, he shuffles off to the other side of the bar.

"Thank–" she begins.

"I didn't do it for you," I say icily. "I did it for the mission. Now drink this and relax, we could be here for a while." I push one glass of amber liquid towards her while I swallow the contents of the other in one go, bringing on the darkness. I can forget this night too.

 _One Week and Four Days Earlier_

We've been here three nights now, and the bartender is a familiar face. He has our drinks lined up as we traipse in exhausted from another day of evidence, witnesses and paperwork. Mainly paperwork.

Granger sips from her flask regularly, and not an eyelid is batted as long as I keep the galleons flowing. It's starting to feel almost like a routine, although I know it'll be disrupted as soon as the next lead is found. But for now, this is the best chance of getting Yaxley or any information. According to reports and the man I interrogated earlier, this pub and area were the last places he was known to be. So here is where we stay, drinking the pain away each night.

A spider scuttles across the bar, and Granger overturns her empty glass, trapping it within. The spider desperately pushes its legs against the walls of its prison as I watch. I reach over to free it, but I'm halted by the sound of Granger's voice, so quiet I have to move closer to hear.

"Do you remember in fourth year? When Mad Eye showed us the… Unforgivables?" She flinches visibly at the word, and I simply nod, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts. "It's, well, it wasn't very accurate, was it? The spider was so… vulnerable. It was so quiet; I could hardly believe it was in pain at all. Even when–with your aunt–I didn't realise how _loud_ it was. I could hardly bear it today, and that man was someone who I didn't even know, a criminal. If it was someone I loved…"

She trails off, leaving an uncomfortable silence which I know I'm supposed to fill but don't know how. She must know torture is part of the job when it comes to getting information from ex-Death Eaters, and the Cruciatus Curse is the best way to get that done. But she seems so shaken by it all; and now she's looking to me for help. The most interaction we ever had a Hogwarts was to glare, curse or insult one another. It's no surprise that I can't help now. The only comfort I know is the one at the end of a bottle or the bottom of a glass, and that's definitely not what she needs.

I stand, placing one hand gently under her arm to steady her as she rises. I lead her upstairs, helping her to climb into bed and pulling the covers over her. She begins to strain, but I'm already passing her the glass bottle she drinks from every night, and the navy glass is in stark contrast against her ashen face as she raises it to her lips.

I'm about to transform the chair into a makeshift bed when I have a thought. I creep past Granger and down the stairs. Lifting the glass, I watch the spider as it hurriedly runs up a nearby wall.

When I get to the room, I can see that Granger is fast asleep already. The bottle lies beside her, and I bend to pick it up. I want to open it, to see what it is. But I'm not brave enough to ask, so I don't deserve to know. I keep telling myself this as I brush a stray brown lock out of her face, which is finally in peaceful sleep.

 _One Week Earlier_

A week into our mission, I coax a smile out of her as we toast a week with only one lead which turned out to be a dead end, but some really excellent Firewhiskey.

"I have an idea." There's a playful glint in her eye which makes me break out into a grin. "How about we take a break from Firewhiskey tonight?"

"Sounds good to me," I reply, nodding to the barman who has overheard. Within a minute, he has a rainbow of shot glasses lined up along the counter.

"Start with the red, and work your way along to the purple. The first one to reach the gold in the middle gets that one: it's a happiness potion. Should get you in the mood," he finishes with a wink. I glance across at Granger who's gone redder than the shot in her hand.

"Ready?" I ask.

She nods uncertainly.

"Go."

I throw back the shot in my hand, already reaching for the next. I race through them–barely even gasping for air, my throat on fire–until I reach for the gold.

My hand grasps thin air. I look up, meeting Granger's grin as she holds out half a glass of golden liquid to me. I look over to see the barman chuckling and shaking his head.

"I saved half for you," she smiles. "More out of pity than anything…"

Teasing. Hermione Granger is teasing me. I angrily grab the glass and let the sweet liquid fill my mouth. I'm instantly calmed, and happiness like sunlight spreads through me. I can taste the strawberry of her lip gloss that was on the glass, and run my tongue over my lips, savouring the taste.

Granger is eying me with a strange expression.

"What?" I slur, focussing on her eyes to keep me steady.

"Nothing, you just look happy."

"That damn potion," I laugh. "It's enough to make a traitor and a Malfoy happy."

"No one thinks you're a traitor anymore." She does her best to sound convincing.

"I may never be as smart as you, Granger, but I'm not stupid. It should be an Auror here with me, not some office worker. It's pretty obvious you're only here as a favour for Potter. Not that I don't like being here with you," I add quickly, noticing the hurt look on her face.

"Don't worry about it," she sighs. "It's not ideal for either of us, but I think we've made it work."

"Wow, that potion must be strong—it almost sounded as if you like me," I grin. I turn to the bartender. "Can we get another one of those? What's in it?"

The man nods, and starts pouring it into two glasses. "It's a variation of a Calming Draught, with added ingredients, obviously. Sort of clears the mind and then fills it with happy thoughts," he explains as he pours.

I feel a hand on my arm, and look to see that it's attached to Granger, who a minute ago was laughing and grinning. She looks serious now, waving to the bartender and giving him money to pay for our untouched drinks.

We stumble upstairs and I collapse on the bed. She sits carefully next to me, unhooking her necklace and placing it on the bedside table.

"What happened down there?" I demand. "Those potions are great. I don't feel happy all that often; I don't need you taking that away from me."

She looks genuinely guilty. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice almost a whisper. "You could've stayed, I just didn't think... I just didn't know if it was safe for me to drink."

"Why wouldn't it be safe for you but okay for me?" I ask, puzzled. "You sure as hell aren't pregnant with how much you've drunk, you've almost kept up with me and I'm a bloody borderline alcoholic. So what's the deal?"

I can see the potion has worn off her, the glow gone from her eyes. I'm sure I can still feel its effects, but it doesn't seem to have lasted as long on her. Tears start streaming down her face.

"Because you're not already taking more than the recommended dose of Calming Draught every day," she sobs. "It barely even works on me anymore, but it's the only thing that stops the flashbacks and lets me sleep at night."

"So that's what you drink from that flask all day?"

She nods tearfully. "That's a dilute version, just to keep me going through the day. Then I've got the full strength stuff in the bottle for night time, when the memories are worse. Otherwise I see their faces and feel the pain and I just can't bear it. I don't want to have to do this anymore."

She crumples, and I wrap my arms around her gently, as if she might break. Sobs wrack her body, and it's all I can do to not pull away in fright. There was no crying aloud in Malfoy Manor, and I don't know what to do with such displays of emotion.

As the sobs and gasps subside, I lie her down against the soft sheets, pulling the quilt up over her. With reluctance, I fish the blue bottle out of the cupboard where she has placed it, unscrew the lid, and lift the bottle to her mouth, strawberry lip gloss smearing the rim.

She shakes her head.

"I… I want to try without it tonight." I pull the bottle away, surprised. "Can I try something else instead?"

I place the bottle down, and as I turn back her lips are on mine and my mouth is filled with strawberries. Her hands scrape at my bare back, and I can't remember how we got to lying naked with hands roaming but she's _warm_ and _real_ and I don't _care_ how I got here but I never want leave.

We lie entangled in blankets and sheets after, and I gaze around the room. This is the first room above a backstreet pub that's felt anything like home. I'd put it down to the chill similar to that of the Manor, and the free-flowing alcohol which always helps. But then I look down at the sleeping woman in my arms, and I know why this place is different. Things have changed.

 _Six Days Earlier_

The next morning I wake as if I'm still under the effects of the potion—until I realise she's gone. Her things are still here, although I note the blue bottle has disappeared from beside the bed. I try to swallow my panic, and head for the office.

She's sitting at the desk, surrounded by the piles of paperwork we've been neglecting for the past couple of days. There's relief when I see she's okay, but anger flares up inside me. The flame is only fuelled when I spy the blue bottle on the desk next to her.

"What do you think you're playing at?" I shout. "We're in the middle of a dangerous mission and you think it's a good idea to leave without telling me?"

"You found me quickly enough," she states simply, her voice calm. Almost _too_ calm.

"I was worried about you, Hermione," I plead. She almost looks up at the sound of her name, before continuing scribbling her notes, the sound of the quill on parchment grating at my patience and sanity. My throat aches for a drink.

I turn on my heel and storm out. I walk and walk until I can breathe again. It's my own fault, for thinking I was special, for thinking I would be different. I'm not special at all, and certainly not special enough to make the golden girl feel anything for me.

 _Five Minutes Earlier_

For almost a week, we hardly speak. We organise shifts watching the bar, and I spend mine drinking as much as possible before returning to the room to throw up. She barks orders occasionally but she's not really here, not focussed. More than once I've had to pull her back from roads with cars approaching, only to be thanked with a snatched-away arm and stony glare.

The blue bottles are never far from her reach now, and I've found ingredients and a cauldron in the room, so she's running low on stocks. She always has enough, though—enough to keep away the flashbacks. Those flashbacks now seem to include me too. She won't speak about that night, and I'm beginning to wonder whether it was a drunken dream. So I watch in silence each day as the sips turn to gulps that get more frequent, and her face becomes pale and drawn. She barely eats, and I can see the outline of every bone in her once-beautiful body.

Lying on my makeshift bed, I pretend to be asleep as she walks past me. I hear three big gulps, and the anger flares. If it wasn't for that _cursed_ potion, I would never have slept with her. I wouldn't have seen what happiness was like before it slipped through my fingers. Or I might still have a chance at it if it wasn't stopping her feeling a goddamn thing as she slowly kills herself with it.

She's asleep, now. Without thinking, I stride around the room, gathering up every bottle. The cauldron and ingredients go out of the window—to hell with whoever finds them—and I finally sit down on the bed.

The first bottle slips through my fingers, its contents staining the floorboards. Rage consuming me, I smash the next bottle, _hard_. After that I can't stop, the anger flowing through me as I plead with myself to stop for her sake, to continue to save her. But maybe she's beyond saving. Part of me knows this is revenge–I want her to feel the pain I feel. I want her to feel _something_.

I lie next to her, the blue glass creating an ocean around the bed in which we rest. Her eyes are closed, her breathing light and fast, and I give her a kiss on the forehead as I throw the last bottle down onto the floor. The sound of shattering echoes around the walls of yet another dingy room, no more like home than the last. Staring down at the floor, I watch the clear liquid running rivers across the wood–the remnants of her hope that had caused her downfall.

I climb out of the bed, glass cutting into my soles, not allowing myself a last glance back as I head through the door, the red of my blood mixing with the clear.


End file.
